


just take off my dress, let's mess with everybody's minds

by ladyvivien



Category: Dollhouse
Genre: F/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-04
Updated: 2010-02-04
Packaged: 2017-10-07 00:40:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/59496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyvivien/pseuds/ladyvivien
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>oh baby you're young, but that's OK/what's give or take nine years, anyway?</p>
            </blockquote>





	just take off my dress, let's mess with everybody's minds

**Author's Note:**

> Dollhouse owned by Joss. Title &amp; summary from _Rock Me_, Liz Phair's superlative peon to older women screwing around with younger men.

So, his mom had this cat when he was a kid, Snowflake? And Snowflake was all cute and pretty and fuzzy most of the time, but when she saw a mouse her eyes would go dark and she'd get this predatory expression on her face that's kind of like the one Adelle DeWitt is wearing right now.

Dude, Snowflake was an awesome cat. It really sucked when she died. And also that the experiment backfired and he was grounded for a month and he still isn't allowed to have any pets even though he is totally out of his mom's jurisdiction these days.

But that's not the point. The point is….the point is that Boss Lady DeWitt has a really great rack. Wait, no. The point is that she wandered in here with that hungry kitty expression and perched on his desk and started talking to him, and it's really hard to concentrate on her actual words when she's looking at him the way he imagines she looks at a really good single malt. Wow, that was bitchy. He's been spending way too much time with Ballard (who, FYI, is totally fixating on bringing down the Dollhouse in order to avoid dealing with some issues of a sexual orientation nature).

She sighs and rolls her eyes in that way she has that manages to be totally withering, yet also kind of sexy in a cranky hot librarian kind of way.

"Topher, I don't know whether to be insulted at the fact that you're staring at my breasts…or insulted at the fact that you're staring at my breasts whilst clearly thinking of something else."

"Uh….you could maybe be complimented?" She stares at him. "Not that I was staring….or thinking about something else. Anything! I wasn't thinking about anything. Except what you were saying."

"Which was…" she prompts.

"….Echo is getting out of control, Harding's an idiot, could I please run some diagnostics?" he guesses.

The ensuing pause only lasts a few seconds but somehow gives his imagination enough time to conjure up seventeen different scenarios of how she's about to hurt him.

"I asked you where Ivy was. About, ooh," she glances at her watch, "five minutes ago, so wherever she _was_, she's probably somewhere else by now."

He gulps. "Honestly? I have no idea."

She rolls her eyes. "Why doesn't that surprise me?"

"What did you want Ivy for?"

"I didn't. I was just ascertaining her whereabouts. Of course, one could equally question why you are still here, given that it must be way past your bedtime."

Hers too, he thinks. It's late, the Dolls are all back in their boxes – yes, they're called sleeping pods, but there's no point having a metaphor if you're not going to get extended use out of it - and she should have left hours ago.

It's not like she doesn't have her own apartment – her own very pricey apartment in a complex with a fancy gym and a pool and probably stairs made of platinum or something (he has a hunch she'd find gold tacky) – because he knows that she does. He's hacked into her personnel files, which she probably knows because she knows everything just like the omniscient God of the Old Testament or that internet comic with the dinosaurs. He knows that she's been spending more and more time at the House and less at home. Also, that her friend Emily (who thinks she's doing research at UCLA) is visiting next month and wants to meet her boyfriend Roger, and _man_ is that going to be awkward now. She probably doesn't know that he sometimes hacks into her personal email when he's bored and when Boyd isn't cyber-fighting with his soon-to-be-ex-wife. He can tell that on account of the fact that he's still in one piece and breathing.

If he doesn't say something soon, she's going to carry on staring at him like that and he will forget to breathe and he'll keel over and die, a young genius cut off in his prime.

"Nope. No Ivy. We're all alone."

And they are. Very, very alone. Him and Adelle DeWitt. Who may or may not have been drinking, but who is in one hell of a weird mood. If she was anyone else – and if he was someone with substantially better luck – he'd think she was flirting with him. Which, whilst totally against the natural order of things….wouldn't be all that awful, if he's honest. Because smart chicks are hot, science fact. And she may only have one PhD because hey, not everyone can be Topher Brink: Boy Wonder, but it is in biochemistry, and it is from Cambridge. He read her thesis once, it was pretty good. A few flaws, but it's not like he'd ever have the nerve to point them out. The thought skitters through his mind that she would look really, really hot in a lab coat and black glasses and nothing else except her undoubtedly expensive underwear.

She's looking at him expectantly and he desperately tries to rid himself of that image and the man reaction it's beginning to provoke.

"Clearly any hope I had for intelligent conversation was misplaced," she huffs. He feels like he's missed something, some non-verbal cue of the kind he's never been any good at picking up. He doesn't really know what's going on, but he knows he doesn't want her to leave.

"Wait, no! I can do intelligent! I'm a genius. You know this. Hey," he waggles his eyebrows, "I have potato chips in my Drawer of Inappropriate Starches. Or 'crisps', if you prefer."

She shudders, looking faintly nauseous. "Carbs? No thanks, I'll pass."

"I feel rejected." Weirdly, he's not actually being funny this time. Well, he is because he's _Topher_, but he also does feel a bit put out that she doesn't want to share his stash.

She gives him a pitying look. "Poor boy," she pouts mockingly. "Was that really your best offer?"

"You're mean. Here I am, slaving away on your behalf, a young man in his prime, wasting all my youth and beauty in the name of science. And I offer you junk food and you throw it back in my face! Not literally, which would be a waste of good inappropriate starches, but still."

She grins wickedly, and now he knows what the mice felt like when they turned a corner and saw Snowflake there, waiting to pounce.

"Would it make you feel better if I told you I appreciated your youth and beauty as well as your science?"

He had no coherent response to that. Or to the fact that Adelle DeWitt was definitely flirting with him – thanks to boredom, restlessness, job stress or vodka – and had apparently come down into his office from hers which was many floors up, just to do it.

"Why do I feel as though I've stepped into a scene from _The Graduate_?"

"Would you like me to seduce you?"

"Is there a way of answering that won't get me fired?"

She smirks. "Touche."

He's glad she didn't make him answer, because his answer would be "Oh yes please, dear _God_ yes," and he thinks that might affect their working relationship.

"Are you alright, Topher? You seem…uncomfortable." She perches on the edge of his desk, feet tucked under her, affording him an excellent view of her long, shapely legs.

"I….No. What? Why?"

"I didn't mean to embarrass you," she said in a tone of voice that suggested quite the opposite, leaning forwards enough that if he'd wanted to check out her cleavage, he could have done so with minimal effort. And he's always been a fan of minimal effort.

He stands up, in the mistaken belief that not sitting right underneath her will somehow even the balance between them. It sort of doesn't. At all.

"You didn't," he says in a voice that doesn't sound like it belongs to an adult male.

She cocks her head to one side, mimicking a Doll-like innocent curiosity. "I've always wondered, Topher – are you this awkward around all authority figures, or is it just a powerful woman thing?"

"What? No? I'm fine with powerful women! I've been with powerful women and done just fine! Wait, that's not what I….not that I haven't…but…I…..grrrjjklk." It was less of a word and more of an attempt to swallow his own tongue.

She's laughing at him. He feels as though he deserved it.

"Have you ever even been with a woman, Topher?" she asks softly. "I mean a real woman, not whoever you program Sierra to be when you think I don't know, which, might I remind you, _I always do_."

"Like you can talk, Miss Lonelyhearts," he shoots back, not quite able to meet her eyes. In any other circumstance, he'd never dare remind her that he knows about Roger, but in any other circumstance she wouldn't be sitting on his desk with those amazing legs crossed and her voice doing that purring thing so…..you know. Exenuating circumstances here.

She narrows her eyes but lets that one pass. "There's a difference between not having the time to approach a real person and not having the balls." That's the thing about DeWitt. She quips better than he does. He wonders if she still has that smart mouth when she's fucking.

"I have balls," he says defensively. "I totally have balls."

She raises an impeccably arched eyebrow. "Prove it."

And then, to a combination of his utter delight and mind-numbing terror, she leans back against the desk, and hitches up her skirt. Just like in his fantasies, she's wearing seamed stockings and black silk panties. He vaguely wonders whether or not she calls them knickers or if she's become Americanized even if she still can't say hard r's, and then he realises that she's pulling them down. She pauses when they're by her knees long enough for him to notice that she is very, very wet. She pulls them the rest of the way down, and sits in his chair with a raised eyebrow. It's not really appropriate to draw parallels between her and Roger Moore (best Bond ever, as anyone with any sense knows), but seriously. That eyebrow thing is suave. He's tried it himself, but it just makes him look as though he's about to have a seizure.

She clears her throat, and he realises what she's waiting for. What she wants him to do.

He's on his knees in an instant, because she's Adelle DeWitt and you don't say no to her, not if you want to live, and also because she's _Adelle DeWitt_, at once the scariest and sexiest woman he has ever met.

He's never actually done this before, but once he runs his tongue tentatively over the slick folds of skin, he realises that everything he's ever read is wrong. Adelle doesn't taste like honey or nectar or spices or any of that crap. She tastes like….like….she tastes freaking amazing, and whether it's enthusiasm or just natural talent, he's got her squirming against his mouth as she makes all these little whimpers and sighs.

She's got her legs hooked around him, which in his fantasies was less uncomfortable, but it's also insanely hot. She's close to the edge already, which further proves his theory that she came here for one reason and for one reason only, and that is that he is a sex god.

His tongue is flickering inexpertly over her clit, making up for in speed and pressure what he lacks in finesse, and she's starting to go crazy in a way that makes his current position really uncomfortable.

"Ohhhhh…..Oh, _fuck_. Yes. Yes, Topher just…Mmmmmm, keep doing that. Yes…yeah…oh _God_….."

She climaxes hard, her juices smearing across his face, her hips jerking so wildly that he's a little bit worried she'll injure him. Then she gradually recovers, spasming a little from the aftershocks, and her eyes flutter open to see him still there, kneeling obediently at her feet.

She stands up and stretches, and if he notices the way her blouse rides up to reveal a taught stomach and tightens around her small, firm breasts…..well, he's only human. And he's earned it.

"Bloody hell, Topher. It seems you have hidden talents." Her voice is croaky but pleased, and that's the only thing in the world that matters right now. Except. Except….

He's not entirely sure what happens next.

He's hard as a rock and he knows that she knows. And it's logical to assume she'll do something about it, especially since he just gave her what, in his opinion, was a mighty fine orgasm. But if there's one thing that Adelle DeWitt likes, it's power. Also, alcohol. But mostly power, and it's entirely feasible that denying him an orgasm to show him who's boss is the kind of thing she'd do.

Which is stupid, because she signs his paycheck and could send him to the Attic if she wanted, and also unfair because this is the worst case of blue balls he's had since, like, ever. He looks at her pleadingly, and when she laughs the sound isn't entirely unkind.

Her gaze drops to the bulge in his jeans. "And some not-so-hidden talents, too."

She shouldn't be able to smirk like that whilst her legs are still trembling from the after effects of what looked like a pretty powerful orgasm, but she's DeWitt, so she does.

She squeezes him through his pants, and he knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that if he comes, she'll send him to the Attic without blinking. It's the only thing stopping him wrecking a perfectly good pair of jeans.

"On the chair."

He moves to the seat she's just vacated, but she shakes her head and points.

Oh no. No freaking way. He is not. Lying. In. That. Chair.

"You have got to be kidding me. You have got to be fucking kidding me. I know what happens in that chair! I know, because I'm normally the one doing it!"

"Do you trust me?" She's impassive as ever, the goddamn ice queen of Los Angeles.

"Honestly?" he asks. She nods silently. "No."

She smiles, and he feels as though he passed a test he never wanted to take in the first place. "Good boy."

Somehow he's sitting on the edge, and when she pushes him backwards there's nothing he can do but cooperate. He knows that, were she to ask, he'd give her whatever she wanted. State secrets he got out of the ex-Fed by getting him drunk when he first joined (which, hello, should not have been that easy and why have they not been invaded yet if the FBI spill everything after five – or was it six? – tequila slammers?). The details of all the secret tech he's working on that would get him fired and thrown in jail and worse. His pimped-out, customised MacBook Pro. Five years of his life.

He's lying prone in the goddamn imprinting chair and thanking God that everything in the room is powered down for the night as she traces a gentle finger across his forehead, eyelids, lips. Runs her hand down his chest ever so slowly, fingers sliding over his stomach with a feather-light graze that would tickle if it wasn't so erotic, and then down further still.

"Now that isn't so bad, is it?" she murmurs.

When he struggles to object, he's not even fooling himself. Her lingering hand on his denim-clad erection makes that painfully clear.

"You forget," she murmurs, "I'm in the business of giving people what they want. And I've known what you want for a long time now, Mr Brink."

"Care to uh….enlighten me?"

She folds her arms, and gives him an appraising gaze.

"Let's see…you don't have a physical type, but you like intelligent women. Dr Saunders, that godawful woman in D.C…you need someone who can keep up with you, which already rules out 98% of the population. You say you're straight, but you'd make an exception for…..let me think…William Shatner in his younger days?"

"Leonard Nimoy," he breathes.

She makes a disgusted face that would be totally adorable on anyone other than the scariest woman he's ever met. "If you say so. Because you're not used to having anyone as your equal, what you really want is someone to outsmart you. You're scared that if you're always the smartest person in the room, always in control, than that brilliant mind of yours will atrophy. And because responsibility scares you on every level, including the sexual, you secretly want someone to take it all away. To follow the orders instead of giving them. It's why you always come running to me for chastisement whenever you get tired of sending Ivy to refill your Drawer of Inappropriate Starches. Let's face it, Topher, you're not exactly a natural leader."

He'd always known that she was smart, that there was a reason she was in charge. But he'd never witnessed first hand just how good she is at her job. It makes him feel a peculiar combination of discomfited and turned the hell on.

"Oh, and," she leans down as if to impart a secret, and whispers wickedly in his ear, "you're also a virgin."

Oh, she did not _just_ say that.

"Way to stereotype!" he protests. "What, you think because I'm a geek -and I wear that badge with pride, by the way – that I got beaten up in high school till I graduated three years early and still send my laundry home to my mom every month and have never gotten past third base with a girl because I have problems interacting with my peers in social situations that don't involve fantasy-based role playing scenarios? Also, forget that last sentence."

She blinks. "Your IQ is probably twice what I weigh, you reprogramme people's brains for a living, and yet you can't even work a washing machine? I'm beginning to have second thoughts, Topher."

"No, don't!" He blurts it out before he can stop himself, and if he's just shown her all his cards then he's past caring. She's already shown him just how well she can read him, he's got nothing left to lose.

She laughs quietly, and nothing should sound that sexy and that frightening all at once.

"So you want me to continue?"

He nods vigorously, any pretence of not wanting this abandoned because if she stops he thinks he'll explode. "Yes, please. Ma'am." He doesn't know where that came from, but it feels right, and her throaty, appreciative chuckle makes him sigh with relief.

"My, my, Mr Brink. I've never seen you exhibit such good manners before. You must _really_ want this." Her voice is challenging. She's going to make him beg for it. Oh holy crap, he's either died and gone to heaven or this is hell and he's being tortured. Or C, all of the above.

"I do," he rasps out hoarsely. "I do want it, Ma'am."

"I suspect," she adds, her voice lowered to a murmur, "that you'd also like me to tell you that you've been a very, very bad boy, but there's time for that later."

He squeezes his eyes shut and fills his mind with all the least sexual things he can think of. Like John McCain and reality TV and Daleks and hey, Adelle is British and he bets she totally grew up watching _Doctor Who_. He wonders who her favourite Doctor is, and he tries to count backwards to figure out which one she'd have grown up with, but the brain that can work out quadratic equations with the ease of stirring sugar in his coffee has let him down now that all his blood is being directed to another, much more demanding, source.

His internal monologue having calmed things down slightly, he opens his eyes again, and realises that she's undressing. Her expensive blouse flutters to the floor and something about the sight of her in only her bra, skirt and stockings is both vulnerable and incredibly arousing. She unzips the skirt, which is already crumpled from being hiked up around her waist as he ate her out, and the sight of her exposed pussy makes him throb.

She looks over at him. "Bra on or off?"

He's surprised he's being given a choice. But since he is, he says "Off. Please, Ma'am," and before he's finished speaking she's reaching behind herself to unhook. It takes a couple of seconds as she fumbles, and aren't girls supposed to be born knowing how to do that? Her irritated frown is the cutest thing he's ever seen since the last time she did something that made his stomach flip over and shit. _Shit_. He might be a little bit in love with Adelle DeWitt. That was not part of the plan. Of any part of any plan he could ever conceivably have.

He struggles for words, trying to disguise how completely undone he is by this woman, who is at once the most dangerous and most damaged person he's ever met, and yes he is including Alpha and Dr Saunders in that assessment.

"How did you know about the control thing? Is there, like, some kind of pheremone I give off? Is it a body language thing?"

She smiles wickedly. "Just your browser history. Which, for the record, you will no longer be using on company time unless you want to explain to Rossum why dominatricesinglasses.com is essential to the programming of our actives."

"Do I at least get points for using a website that correctly pluralises 'dominatrix'?"

"You're lucky that I'm a stickler for good grammar."

"I've often thought so."

The ghost of a smile flickers across her features. He realises unnervingly that it's genuine.

She drops the bra to the floor, and he's not sure but he thinks that her breasts might be the most perfect thing he's ever seen. They're small – he could cup them in his hands, and his palms itch to try it – and her nipples are dark brown against porcelain skin. She has a tiny birthmark, a little wine-red smudge that's barely noticeable, above her right breast. He wants to kiss it, but suspects he's not allowed. She nods at him, and he takes it as his cue to pull off his t-shirt and unzip his Levis. His jeans and boxers end up pooled at his ankles and she straddles him swiftly, swinging one leg over with a dancer's grace until she's kneeling on either side of him, her wet heat barely brushing the tip of his cock. He puts his hands on her waist to steady her, gripping so hard that the pattern of lace on her garter belt feels branded into his hand. When he's satisfied that she's not going to fall – since injuring Adelle DeWitt during sex = A Very Bad Move for his sex life, professional life, and his life full stop – he reaches up to caress her breast, running his thumb lightly across her nipple. She shudders.

"_God_…"

She holds his gaze for a moment, a question in her eyes. For all her seduction, for all her demands, she needs to make sure that this is really what he wants.

"Yes?" she whispers.

He nods. "Yes."

And then she's doing it, sinking down on him and she's so fucking _tight_ and hot and it's like everything he ever imagined except multiplied to the power of infinity. Once he's adjusted to the sensations, he realises he should probably, like, be doing something, so he reaches between their bodies and runs his fingers through her damp dark curls. He sort of flounders for a bit after than, because he knows it's around here somewhere, it's just….

"Oh for Christ's sake," she mutters, and repositions his hand.

….there.

His thumb starts to circle gently and Adelle makes this _noise_ that he can't even describe. Yes, definitely there. He repeats the motion a few times, to make sure he's got the hang of this, and vaguely considers writing a programme for his Wii that would let him practise pleasuring a woman. Once he's confident he knows what he's doing, he starts to mix it up a bit, circling the other way, varying the pressure. She's making all these pleased, happy noises at the back of her throat until he does something – he's never sure what – that produces a throaty groan and her hips speed up.

Whatever moment they've shared is over, and now she's riding him hard.

"Yes, oh God yes. Fuck me harder, Jesus, Topher, just like that, right against my bloody G Spot oh _Fuck oh fuck ohhh…._ She presses her hand to her mouth to muffle the wordless scream, and the thing that finally pushes him over the edge, more than seeing the flush spread on her neck and cheeks or the way she clenches around him like a vice, more than the way her hair is tousled when she runs one hand through it (he is, for the record, very pro the new style), is the delicious discovery that, beneath her reserved exterior, Adelle DeWitt babbles during sex.

He's gotten himself off countless times, but it never felt this good. And it's only when he's exploding into her that he realises they didn't use protection. As he comes down from his high into a fuzzy state of post-coital bliss, he figures that either she took care of the contraception aspect, or they'll produce a child that will eventually take over the world due to their combined awesomeness. Either way, it's all good.

She's collapsed on top of him, and actually the imprinting chair is surprisingly comfortable. Slowly, she drags herself back up, and he can see the effort it takes to pull herself off both him and the chair and stand up.

As the hazy cloud starts to clear, she looks over at him with still-bright eyes and the beginnings of diffident embarrassment.

She clears her throat. "Yes, well. Thank you for that Mr Brink. I trust you found it…" she gropes around for a word, "satisfactory?"

She's nervous, he realises. Unsurprisingly, given that her last lover was programmed to be pleased with whatever she did and still ended up falling for someone else. That would make anyone neurotic.

"Satisfactory doesn't begin to cover it. Many, many superlatives should be used. And will be, once I regain the use of my brain."

In the dim light, he thinks he can see the ghost of a blush flit across her cheek. Then again, it could just be the results of their….exertion.

"It was amazing, Adelle," he says quietly. "Uh. Ma'am. Ms DeWitt."

The mocking scowl she shoots at him doesn't quite disguise the radiant grin her mouth keeps twisting into against her will.

"No need to get carried away, Topher. It was just a shag." She looks around the room in consternation. "Did you see what I did with my knickers?"

He waves in the general direction of his desk. They're on top of his computer, and he watches as she stiffens in mortification and struggles to put them back on whilst regaining her dignity.

"You know what will happen if you tell anyone about this," she says as she zips up her skirt.

"Destination: Attic?" he asks, gloomily.

She snorts. "God, no. You're far too valuable to destroy short of actually putting the House in jeopardy. I meant that that if you tell anyone, this won't happen again. Ever." He just stands there, stunned.

"So, if I don't tell anyone…."

She just smiles cryptically, slips her feet back into the perilously high heels she doesn't even need, and heads for the door. He wants to say something, to stop her, because whatever this moment is it shouldn't just end as though it had never even happened.

"There goes the last of my innocence," he quips lightly because he has no freaking idea of what the protocol is to being relieved of your virginity by your smoking hot but possibly evil and almost definitely alcoholic boss.

She smiles dryly, the DeWitt persona back and all remnants of Adelle banished.

"You were never innocent."

He wants to tell her that she's wrong for once, that she misread him. But he doesn't correct her, just lets her go and listens to the harsh staccato sound of her heels as she walks away.


End file.
